


After the Fall

by etherealApostate



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 09:18:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9600593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etherealApostate/pseuds/etherealApostate
Summary: After the events of Season 2's finale, Munakata dwells on memories of his old friend Mikoto to make sense of his own inner turmoil.





	

The weight was gone.

Munakata had trembled once inside, as the silver Sword of Damocles plummeted (in his mind’s eye, he saw himself beneath his own sword as it hurtled towards him with its inexorable gravity) and as, somewhere below, Yashiro Isana stood with the proud force of a holy suicide.

He could feel the power of his own aura shudder unbidden as the Silver King’s sword descended, and he stood stock still, focusing all his power to still the aura. He could almost feel his companions, something more now than precious pawns, standing behind him, waiting—

The Stoics defined a passion as a literal fluttering of the soul. Munakata had long entertained those theories of the world; in that moment, as his aura itself fluttered, he came closer than ever to believing them.

But now it was gone, and the last twitch of muscle, or soul, or aura was dispelled with the contact of Seri’s fist, and he laughed inside, rejoicing as his soul shook with the passion of relief.

Of course, he showed nothing. Sheer habit impelled him.

And then he was walking, and the years of self-assurance within his legs did not fail him – Fushimi was lying in the van when he reached it, and Munakata recognized the face of a man who was putting to use a long practice in agony. The bandages were freshly tied.

“Captain,” Fushimi said. “We need to start working from here. The entire mode of operation in SCEPTER 4 must be redefined. Without the power of the Slates –“

Munakata shook his head. “Quiet,” he said, looking up and meeting Fushimi’s eyes. “We will deal with that tomorrow.” It would be a miracle if he could get his third-in-command to shut up for the duration of the night alone. He reached into the van and unfolded a wheelchair onto the sidewalk. “Tonight, we celebrate.”

Before Fushimi could do more than open his mouth, Munakata appended, “I will not hesitate to sedate you.” His smile was friendly, in the most skin-crawling manner. Fushimi allowed himself to be hauled into the wheelchair.

With some members limping, all disheveled, and the former Blue King merrily rolling along the worst of the invalids, the elite of SCEPTER 4 made their way down the street blocks in the warm late-afternoon sun.

“Where are we going, Captain?” Seri had asked, and Munakata had heard himself replying in answer. Everything was on automatic. Every worry he had had, couldn’t it have all been solved so much sooner? If this had been necessitated sooner, could even Suoh have…?

Then again, he felt strangely bereft. The smooth buzz of the blue power was absent; it was as if a vital organ was suddenly gone from his chest. Everything felt so superficial, so weak. With every step he quelled the self-consumptive anger that longed again for this old power, just so he could feel it destroy him –

He chuckled to himself. Destroy him. How could he destroy, and leave it at that? Look at him, still thinking as if he was facing that death. He was a free man. And yet… He flexed his hand, feeling the absence again of the Blue strength.

He was putting together a puzzle with missing pieces now.

He rolled Fushimi (dejected to the point of almost looking sedated, now) to a stop at the steps of the HOMRA bar. He could feel Seri’s groomed-over discomfort at his side (again, Munakata smiled; as if she hadn’t been there more often than he) and turned to his troops.

“Tonight,” he began, voice smoother than he thought it would be, “we are going to celebrate. Tomorrow, we begin the tremendous amount of paperwork necessary to justify and document today’s events. But tonight, we will also cement our relationship with the former Red Clan, HOMRA. If we are to continue our mission of keeping check on the strains of this city, we must grow closer than ever with them, and work together, now that the power of the Slates is no more.” He paused. “View this as a bonding exercise.” Eyes shifted in visible awkwardness before him. “Drinks are on me.”

Without further ceremony, he turned back to the entrance, hefted Fushimi’s wheelchair up the steps, and opened the door to the HOMRA bar.

The echoing silence of a suddenly-quieted room (more familiar to Munakata than to some) greeted him, as he rolled Fushimi painstakingly slowly over the threshold. HOMRA was gathered in fine form, with at least one member in the process of sliding beneath a table.

The first noise made was by Kusanagi, still disheveled from fighting, placing a newly-filled glass onto the bar in front of a stock-still Yatagarasu.

“Hello,” Munakata said, eyes sweeping around the room, idly taking in much more than he really wanted to right now. “I’m buying drinks for my subordinates tonight, if that is acceptable.”

Kusanagi nodded – “I don’t see why not,” he replied with equal coolness. Munakata wheeled his invalid technician over to the side of the bar, and leaned in to ask for a drink. The silence would be broken eventually, probably by Yata….

Munakata was right. In a half moment, Yata was strung over Fushimi’s seated form, sobbing with abandon despite himself, and unable to hear Fushimi’s protestations of “That hurts, get off me, I got _stabbed_ for fuck’s sake—“

Munakata tuned out the tense bustle that ensued as the rest of SCEPTER 4 filed in. He found himself ordering neat whiskey, and idly pulled out his pack of Blue Sharks. He briefly met eyes with Kusanagi, thanking the bartender as he set down Munakata’s whiskey; without further prompting Kusanagi withdrew his weighty silver lighter and proffered the flame.

An image flashed to Munakata’s mind, that of one of the last few cigarettes he had enjoyed.

Kusanagi flipped his lighter back to its space in his pocket, and sidled a few seats away along the bar, where Seri was fishing yet another lump of bean paste from her martini glass.

Munakata watched their faces idly, seeing the play of conversation behind the restraint of skin.

The hours passed, and with them the drinks, and by eleven the bar was emptying out. Domyoji, and that young man from HOMRA (Chitose, yes?) left for some club or another, taking a large number of the celebrants with them (one or two still limping or sporting fresh bandages). Munakata had smiled at them as they exited, and Seri had chased them with a “Report in via PDA when you get home.” Others trickled out, headed to their own homes, or someone else’s perhaps. Soon, Seri and Izumo were the only ones with Munakata at the bar proper, while Anna yawned in the corner, and Fushimi was scowling by a table with a thoroughly plastered Yata nodding off on his shoulder.

Looking up, Kusanagi tilted his head at Anna’s sleeping form. “Better take care of our former King…. If you’ll excuse me, Seri…." He stepped to Anna’s half-reclining form on the bench. “Shall I carry you up, Princess?”

Anna shook her head, rising. “I’m getting too big for that, Mr. Kusanagi,” she said in her thin voice. She stood and stretched, the thick folds of her dress ruffled, and headed up the stairs.

“Mr. Kusanagi,” Fushimi’s voice cut across the dusty air of the bar. “I’m not sure Misaki is going to make it home.” Yata roused at his name, making vague noises of disgruntlement.

Izumo rolled his eyes. “I suppose, since it has been such a long day, it wouldn’t be propitious to send you two home in this state. I’ll take you up to the spare room.” Anna’s footsteps still echoing up the stairs, the bartender gave Yata a half-gentle shake. “You hear that? Up.” Yata nodded sleepily, and Kusanagi swept up Fushimi in his arms.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO ME—“ Fushimi scowled up as the means of his unwelcome transportation began to step heavily up the flight of stairs, but Munakata was too lost in thought to pay him mind.

The spare room. Suoh’s old room. Something pierced through the dissociative veil covering Reishi’s mind, and he remembered the singular smell of Suoh’s certain brand of cigarettes mixed with the aura of red flame. He stared at the cigarette in his own hand – who knew how many had come before it – and watched the weak, physical flame work against the edge of the filter.

“Captain,” Seri began. “What are we going to do? How will… SCEPTER 4 continue to function without the….” She trailed off into the not-quite-sober edge of her own words.

Munakata shook his head, as he had so many times today. “We will find a way. But now is not the time.” He stubbed out his cigarette butt into the half-filled ashtray before him, and lifted his head to meet her eyes.

“Seri,” he said, as she bit her lip (unsure of what to say), “Now is not the time. Please.” His voice grew quiet on the last word.

She nodded, eyes returning to the polished and well-handled wood of the bar. She rose as Kusanagi returned down the stairs.

Words were exchanged between them. Munakata heard, but did not bother to listen. In a moment, the door of HOMRA bar swung shut, and he was finally alone inside the dusty darkness.

He leaned his head back, letting the silence surround him. The air of the bar seemed to swim with memories, and so few of them his.

Munakata remembered the last time he had been inside this bar. The tense perfection of all his pieces falling into place – yes, he had played them, he had played them so well, but it was too simple, masturbatory even, without the one he could never quite play….

Within him, the state of doom he had been so recently bereft of again hung low, and mixed like a miasma with the feeling of his sword gliding through Suoh’s ribs. It burned and rose in him, only a shadow of the lately burgeoning concentration that his powers had brought, but just as powerful nonetheless.

Love must, after all, topple structures, blow open craters, just as easily as a Sword of Damocles.

Munakata let out a long sigh, and again reached for his pack of Blue Sharks. It felt light; his fingers encountered only one remaining cigarette.

Slowly, holding back a tremble, he withdrew it, placed it at his lips, and lit it.

 _Old friend_ , he thought, taking his first drag of this night’s last smoke, _I do wish I could share one last cigarette with you again_.


End file.
